by Walter Scott
And harden’d to the blast;
Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle’s plumage known.
The hunted red-deer’s undress’d hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied;
The graceful bonnet deck’d their head:
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid;
A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge and strength,
A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts,-but, O!
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore.
The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry,
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mix’d,
Grumbled and yell’d the pipes betwixt.
VI.
Thus through the Scottish camp they pass’d,
And reach’d the City gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Arm’d burghers kept their watch and ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear,
When lay encamp’d, in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.
As through the bustling streets they go,
All was alive with martial show:
At every turn, with dinning clang,
The armourer’s anvil clash’d and rang;
Or toil’d the swarthy smith, to wheel
The bar that arms the charger’s heel;
Or axe, or falchion, to the side
Of jarring grindstone was applied.
Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace
Through street, and lane, and market-place,
Bore lance, or casque, or sword;
While burghers, with important face,
Described each new-come lord,
Discuss’d his lineage, told his name,
His following, and his warlike fame.
The Lion led to lodging meet,
Which high o’erlook’d the crowded street;
There must the Baron rest,
Till past the hour of vesper tide,
And then to Holy-Rood must ride,-
Such was the King’s behest.
Meanwhile the Lion’s care assigns
A banquet rich, and costly wines,
To Marmion and his train;
And when the appointed hour succeeds,
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds,
And following Lindesay as he leads,
The palace-halls they gain.
VIL
Old Holy-Rood rung merrily,
That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland’s power,
Summon’d to spend the parting hour;
For he had charged, that his array
Should southward march by break of day.
Well loved that splendid monarch aye
The banquet and the song,
By day the tourney, and by night
The merry dance, traced fast and light,
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright,
The revel loud and long.
This feast outshone his banquets past;
It was his blithest,-and his last.
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,
Cast on the Court a dancing ray;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;
There ladies touched a softer string;
With long-ear’d cap, and motley vest,
The licensed fool retail’d his jest;
His magic tricks the juggler plied;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;
While some, in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,
Nor courted them in vain;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious Love asserts his power
O’er coldness and disdain;
And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true-
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.
VIII.
Through this mix’d crowd of glee and game,
The King to greet Lord Marmion came,
While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James’s manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doff’d, to Marmion bending low,
His broider’d cap and plume.
For royal was his garb and mien,
His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
Trimm’d with the fur of marten wild;
His vest of changeful satin sheen,
The dazzled eye beguiled;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown:
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright;
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was button’d with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deem’d he ne’er had seen
A prince of such a noble mien.
IX.
The Monarch’s form was middle size;
For feat of strength, or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye,
His short curl’d beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance,
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, oh! he had that merry glance,
That seldom lady’s heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue;-
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
I said he joy’d in banquet bower;
But, ‘mid his mirth, ‘twas often strange,
How suddenly his cheer would change,
His look o’ercast and lower,
If, in a sudden turn, he felt
The pressure of his iron belt,
That bound his breast in penance pain,
In memory of his father slain.
Even so ‘twas strange how, evermore,
Soon as the passing pang was o’er,
Forward he rush’d, with double glee,
Into the stream of revelry:
Thus, dim-seen object of affright
Startles the courser in his flight,
And half he halts, half springs aside;
But feels the quickening spur applied,
And, straining on the tighten’d rein,
Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.
X.
O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:
To Scotland’s Court she came,
To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,
And with the King to make accord,
Had sent his lovely dame.
Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay King allegiance own;
For the fair Queen of France
Sent him a turquois ring and glove,
And charged him, as her knight and love,
For her to break a lance;
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on Southron land,
And bid the banners of his band
In English breezes dance.
And thus, for France’s Que
en he drest
His manly limbs in mailed vest;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share;
And thus, for both, he madly plann’d
The ruin of himself and land!
And yet, the sooth to tell,
Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen,
From Margaret’s eyes that fell,-
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.
XI.
The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch’s risk in battle broil:-
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er
The strings her fingers flew;
And as she touch’d and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom’s rise and fall
Was plainer given to view;
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitch’d her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;
And laugh’d, and blush’d, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively, air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung:-
XII.
LOCHINVAR.
Lady Heron’s Song
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
‘O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’-
‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’
The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper’d, ‘‘Twere better by far,
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
XIII.
The Monarch o’er the siren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper’d praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink’d, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw
A glance, where seem’d to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest too,
A real or feign’d disdain:
Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.
The King observed their meeting eyes,
With something like displeased surprise;
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment broad,
Which Marmion’s high commission show’d:
‘Our Borders sack’d by many a raid,
Our peaceful liege-men robb’d,’ he said;
‘On day of truce our Warden slain,
Stout Barton kill’d, his vessels ta’en-
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance cry in vain;
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.’
XIV.
He paused, and led where Douglas stood,
And with stern eye the pageant view’d:
I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,
Who coronet of Angus bore,
And, when his blood and heart were high,
Did the third James in camp defy,
And all his minions led to die
On Lauder’s dreary flat:
Princes and favourites long grew tame,
And trembled at the homely name
Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;
The same who left the dusky vale
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,
Its dungeons, and its towers,
Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,
To fix his princely bowers.
Though now, in age, he had laid down
His armour for the peaceful gown,
And for a staff his brand,
Yet often would flash forth the fire,
That could, in youth, a monarch’s ire
And minion’s pride withstand;
And even that day, at council board,
Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,
Against the war had Angus stood,
And chafed his royal Lord.
XV.
His giant-form, like ruin’d tower,
Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,
Seem’d o’er the gaudy scene to lower:
His locks and beard in silver grew;
His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
Near Douglas when the Monarch stood,
His bitter speech he thus pursued :
‘Lord Marmion, since these letters say
That in the North you needs must stay,
<
br /> While slightest hopes of peace remain,
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
To say-Return to Lindisfarne,
Until my herald come again.-
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,-
A chief unlike his sires of old.
He wears their motto on his blade,
Their blazon o’er his towers display’d;
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country’s foes.
And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,
But e’en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first fruits of the war,
Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,
A bevy of the maids of Heaven.
Under your guard, these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades,
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochran’s soul may say.’
And, with the slaughter’d favourite’s name,
Across the Monarch’s brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.
XVI.
In answer nought could Angus speak;
His proud heart swell’d wellnigh to break:
He turn’d aside, and down his cheek
A burning tear there stole.
His hand the Monarch sudden took,
That sight his kind heart could not brook:
‘Now, by the Bruce’s soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live,
